An Unexpected Traitor: Guile's Guileless Facade
by Black-Death
Summary: This is the life of Virginia Weasely; the girl, the witch, the conspirator, and the companion of Voldemort in all of her enigmatic glory. (Please R&R, you won't be disappointed)
1. Introduction and a Note from the Author

"Captivating, brilliant, and charming, Nathaniel Potter has insurmountably created a masterpiece; the voice of Virginia Weasely is straightforward and cutting, and we finally have a thorough portrait of just how cynical a young woman she was."

 _-Merlin Post-Dispatch_

"Witty and sophisticated without being overly analytical; the public has grown tired of reading monotonous text books upon the lives of Dark War figure heads, and firmly believe wizarding and muggle society alike have found a kindred spirit in the wonderful Earl."

 _-The Ba and Ka Daily News_

"Rich and hypnotic…beautifully depicted descriptions and attention to detail. Mr. Potter hits very close to home, and the bond between the Dark Lord and his Lady has never before been so realistically, yet dazzlingly related."

 _- Society of Magical and Non-Magical Relations_

"Virginia Weasely is no longer the painted Jezebel of legend…we now find her stunningly refreshing and mercifully human…"

_-American Times_

"Compelling."

_-Djinn World_

"While his other saga, 'Oedipus Revealed' might have been a flop, this is a piece of art that lovingly blends fictionalized style and historical fact together, creating a classic work that the professors and romantics of all ages will love."

_-Atlantis Reviews_

"Tangible Magic"

_-The Ministry of Magic Department of Historical Literature_

**An Unexpected Traitor: Guile's Guileless Façade**

**Nathaniel Elliot Potter**

**Circe Publishing House, Dublin**

For my ancestors, who sacrificed so much

in the hopes of attaining a better world.

For Love, who is the most malevolent God of all.

The following is a note from the author of this biography concerning the remarkable life of one, Virginia Weasely, a figure that has now become nearly indistinguishable from myth, fact, and legend.  

_-Circe Publishing House Editor, P.T. Williams_

I would like for you, the reader, to be aware that this rendition of Virginia's life is a blend of my own personal insights, hunches, and theories  into what I believe Virginia Weasely's motivations and reasons might have been for becoming the Commanding General to the Deatheater armies, as well as personal consort of Lord Voldemort and mother to his heir. I would also like for you to keep in mind that this reaccounting of what I have learned of Virginia Weasely is by no means one hundred percent fact, as even a specialist as myself hasn't the privilege of attesting that this work is completely trustworthy and historically sound. I have no intention of infringing upon the works of my colleagues, and wish to dedicate this novel to my fellow historians, scientists, and professors of Magical Culture that have made a tremendous effort to aid me in this difficult, albeit rewarding endeavor.

My intentions within this biography are to give Virginia Weasely a degree of the humanity that has been robbed from her image through out these last centuries after her death. I have set forth to prove that she was not the monster that young mothers and fathers tell frightening tales of to their children at night before bedtime. It is my goal to give substantial evidence that, while she may have fully understood what consequences her choices would eventually bring, she did in fact, not wish for the muggle race to be exterminated. I know that what I have just briefly stated here shall by now have invited the full wrath of hell upon my head by critics of this work, but it is my mission to make this message clearly known, and very hopefully sympathized with. Virginia Weasely's involvement with Tom Marvolo Riddle, or more widely, loathsomely known as Lord Voldemort, was not the simple, naive romance that many misinformed individuals have painted it to be. There was a web of infinite complexity to their relationship, as any worthy students of the Dark Wars is capable of learning once they have sufficiently researched the aspects of their relationship and bizarre affinity to one another. 

I have decided to use the first-person point of view for this novel; on the basis that I feel it will subject the majority of the general audiences to the greatest impact available. It shall also provide a means of pulling compassion from the reader for the humilities and trials that Virginia Weasely encounters within the period leading up to her coercion into her mate's ranks. Some critics have already declared this aspect of my writing style to be overly manipulative, though I must protest; I feel it merely cooperates with the book and lends a larger intimate element that the reader may more readily identify with. 

There are an honored few of us that have the pleasure of saying that our accounts of these two prominent historical figures' lives are completely accurate, and I dare say that I shall gain the empathy of those that have gone before me, and those that I have followed in the footsteps of. To address all of these problems would take an entire commentary, of which I am currently in the process of writing. The main controversies, that the reader need be mindful of are those of time and date correctness, as well as varying eye-witness accounts of often times the same events.

No modern-day scholar will ever be able to calculate the precise time that Virginia Weasely's inevitable change had occurred. There wasn't any tangible marker on the calendar as to when it had happened, of course, and the stars seem to be the sole possessors of that secret now.  All that can really be stated with unquestionable, cold certainty was that one day the Weasely household had awoken to the usual chaos it had grown accostumed to throughout the years, yet Virginia Weasely had not.

While we know that it had originally been Molly and Arthur Weasely, Virginia's parents, that had made the decision to knock upon her bedroom door that fateful evening, we still are in doubt as to whether or not they had suspected anything prior to such circumstances had been amiss with their daughter. For it is common knowledge that significant changes such as these rarely, if ever, occur abruptly, and are next to always gradual, piecemeal things. Thus, the skeptics that blame the parents upon the child's seduction into the Dark find their dogma. But it is also common knowledge that Virginia was the youngest child after six older brothers, and an extreme introvert at that. Had she simply not been noticed as was prone to happen in such families, continuing on with many a mysterious, heavy burden weighing down upon her heart until it was too late? I must say, while I do not agree with every fundamental philosophy of the optimists, they do have a point when it comes to the oblivious nature of her parents. What rational-thinking beings would ever anticipate such a thing as what was to come, least of all within their own flesh-and blood daughter?

Another issue to present would be the ever famous, ever controversial first words spoken to Virginia Weasely after her momentous Change. In some texts, they read:

"Ginny, why weren't you down for supper? We're worried, are you feeling well, dear?"

Personally, I prefer the official phrase verified by the Ministry personnel, and that is what shall be used within this novel:

"Ginny? Love, you didn't come down for your meal, are you alright? Gin?" 

I find that the Ministry's documents, after intense scrutiny, to be the most reliable, credible source to date, as did many respectable modern-day authorities such as Thrace Stevens, Chiron Hesperus, and Yasar Muhammad.

Now that such issues have been duly addressed, I shall leave you with this novel, and my hopes that you shall gain a better understanding, and perhaps more humanly pity for this tragic figure of history. The Virginia of tradition is obsolete, and I mean to discard her despicable image as quickly and effectively as I can, and leave you with what was originally intended. 

This is the life of Virginia Weasely; the girl, the witch, the conspirator, and the companion of Voldemort in all of her enigmatic glory.

_-Nathaniel Elliot Potter, Earl of Gryffindor_

~*~*~

(Real Author's Note:) I shall be updating this soon for the first chapter of the story. Feedback shall be much appreciated. Yes, there shall be a Tom/Ginny 'romance' (if you wish to call an incredibly twisted, emotionally agonizing thing that) and I intend to make damned sure that Ginny will be an intelligent, strong, albeit vulnerable character, though not the weakling too many fan fic authors end up making her out to be. Tom will be Tom...of course. Ruthless, cold, unabashed, deceptive, cruel, unrepentant, yummy, good ol' Tom...


	2. Chapter One

_"As far as one may tell, she seemed a witch of average power, though not of average contempt."_

-**_Nathaniel Elliot Potter, Earl of Gryffindor_**

****

****

**Chapter One**

_"Then as the Victor contemplates his foe, his vanquished foe,_

_His vanquished foe so vast, a sudden voice_

_Is heard, it's source not readily discerned,_

_But heard for very sure: "Why, Cadmus, why_

_Stare at the snake you've slain? You too will be_

_A snake and stared at…"_

**-Ovid Naso Publius 'Metamorphoses'**

Though many think I'm mad, I usually laugh at such admissions and brush them off with the excuse that I had merely run away with a bout of imagination again. Honestly, are _they_ qualified enough to diagnose me?

You see, I talk to people. People that aren't there, people that I know should be there. But before you begin to speculate about this, let me explain. 

I'm in no way a seer, a medium or amateur psychic. I have never had more than the few notably random encounters with the paranormal like anyone else has, whether they are of muggle, or of magical background. There's an entirely different feel to these sessions that I have, and it's absolutely nothing of or relating to the other realms. I'm quite assured of that, though I don't completely close the possibility just in the case that I am proved wrong. It has been known to happen before.

Now you may go for the other, tried and true, much more obvious explanation: schizophrenia. I don't blame you, in fact, a couple of months ago I would have thought this the most likely candidate myself. It wasn't until I had looked up the disease that I'd started to wonder again if what I was going by was actually the right thing after all. There were just too many differences outweighing the similarities, despite my own wishful thinking. For instance, schizos tend to see the people that they're talking to, and cannot control the inclination that induces them to spontaneously converse with them.  Also, it is considered 'abnormal' for their condition if they do not have more than one symptom.  With my predicament, I never see the things that I am talking to, but I'm reasonably sure that they're men and women, and very content creatures at that. They don't always follow me around, or question me in the most inopportune moments, though such has happened by accident. Truthfully, they're very polite, and only come for a chat when I bid them to, or when they have an important message to relay.  I don't know much about them, for it seems that personal information is a foreign idea to them, but I do know that they are the instruments of someone, or something else.  The relaying messages thing? Any idiot must figure that those are coming from a specific source, especially when these people start out a conversation with 'I was told to tell you'.

Yes, it's always been something that's plagued me with curiosity, but not so much for whom these people are, but _why _they are. I'm a pretty firm believer that most things in life have a purpose to them, particularly when life dishes you out phantoms that you can lead about wherever, ones that don't seem to grow annoyed with you, and have even been known to silently help you with your potions tests in class.

But now for the third possible answer I had bouncing around in my brain awhile back. After Tom Riddle came quickly in and out of my life like day-old laundry, things changed and I with them. What living human being wouldn't have changed after that adorable little sociopathic megalomaniac played havoc with your mind and body? 

The thing is though, that I wasn't changed in the normal or even expected manners of which I'd been constantly monitored for, and in many instances still _am_ monitored for when attending Hogwarts. I had done some terrible things by most people's standards, yes, I had, and still do have many horrible thoughts that would scare even the most pious of religious authorities, but in all honesty, they aren't anything deviating from the usual  things I would have had floating about in my skull.  

What Tom had done to me, was open my mind up to a greater perspective. I absorb things now with a speed that I'm certain many would fear, though I hadn't exactly been average on the intelligence scale before. I can just as easily disregard the things that I pick up that I find aren't beneficial to me, or don't interest me at all. I have him to thank for that, because since the time he had taken control of me and decided to go knocking around in my head, it was as though he'd flipped on a master switch of some sort that I hadn't even known existed. Truly, there are moments I'll look in the mirror and feel like Hermione Granger, though a more apt version, without the hopeless bush of brown hair.

Forgive me, to get back to the point at hand. Should I attribute these phantoms to Tom's influence as well? There are times that I wonder, and can't help but feel as though that is something of the truth, albeit a flawed version. But that would be ridiculous, wouldn't it? Tom Marvolo Riddle is dead, his soul taken over by a wretched thing with red eyes and pasty grey skin that is driven by obsession.

I suppose that these people that somehow attached themselves to me were the first clear sign I had that something out of the ordinary was happening to me. I was even starting to detect strange, alien desires arising within me that I'm certain weren't my own, or hadn't been lurking about me previously. Thirsts for little, petty triumph and superiority over things. 

I didn't like it because I did.

***

It was a Saturday over the holiday vacation when I discovered myself to be wallowing in some sort of depression. I couldn't find the reason for it, but it was there. I had no need to be miserable, nothing had been done to me that I'd taken necessary umbrage to, purposefully or not.

After I had determined to ignore this nagging emotion, I had risen from bed to the stench of eggs and bacon wafting up from the kitchen through the crack at the bottom of my door. For some unfathomable idea, the word 'common' came to my lips, and it left a distinct after taste when I had wordlessly shaped it with my mouth. It shocked me, and I had wondered where it had come from, considering it felt as though it hadn't been my own inclination to say it. My mother's food had never once disgusted me before, but now I couldn't bear the thought of going downstairs and sitting at the big family dining table, watching my fellow kin indulge in an early morning breakfast like swine to the trough.

Whilst I quibbled over this, my ears were jolted with the hammering footsteps of Fred and George running down the stairway. The fools had been graduated for two years now, yet they hadn't a job, or house of their own. It often irritated me, as I had high hopes that this household would have been much calmer after they had left Hogwarts. How wrong I had been.

I slid out of bed and shuffled over to my bureau, pulling out a black sweater and trousers. Running a hand through my now cropped locks, of which I had taken sheers to out of boredom earlier that year, I squinted in the grey morning light, sleep retaining its strangle-hold on my senses. 

There was something writhing in the pile of folded cloths.

I don't scare easily anymore, not like I used to, though there are enough times when I am to know that it's a warning of some sort, made to adhere to nothing but the instinctual rules of self-preservation. I override it as I always did, believing this would just be another useless little child's fear, borne from paranoia and too much coddling from my parents at birth.

When my hand tentatively drew away the pulsing shirt, uncovering the object of my apprehension, I was accosted with a knot of dread sinking down within the pit of my stomach. 

_A stroke of hidden design_. That was the one thought that echoed through my mind, but it carried so much with it as I stared into the little glittering, jewel-like red eyes of the black serpent, it's tongue snapping out and tasting the air before it took a strike at my trembling hand, fangs resembling two small daggers to my overly imaginative thoughts.

I would love to say that it missed me, that my reflexes were super-human enough to have pulled my arm out of the way in the nick of time, but that would be a very improbable, inconceivable lie. If perhaps I had just had the presence of mind enough to have retrieved my wand before I had caved into the urge to remove the fabric, I may have had a chance. As it was, I invited the resultant consequences.

A sharp, keening pain where I was hit exploded, and the pumping of the venom as it was released from the fangs drew my attention. Before I'd even had the thought to cry out, it sprang to the floor and slithered quick as lightning beneath my bed. 

I scrambled toward the door, intending to run down the stairs and tell my mother and father to contact the nearest mediwitch or mediwizard possible, but something stopped me. Literally stopped me.

My breath hitched within my throat, and I heard nothing but the roar of blood drumming in my ears. I could feel all of my physical facilities shutting down, my knees quaking and dropping to the floor, head lulling and spittle running from the side of my mouth as I lost all control of my body.

Just as blackness began to tinge the corner of my vision, I knew that I could see an apparition, if that is indeed what it was. 

There was a horrible, familiar countenance grinning skeletally at me, its teeth drawn back into what could almost be mistaken for tender amusement.

"You..." I slurred, before I felt myself die and my awareness dim as something wholly different took my place.

~*~*~

**( Real**** Author's Note:) Another chapter shall be out shortly, stay tuned for updates. I think that the ensuing plot will surprise the reader to a large extent. There will be excerpts and quotes from 'muggle' literature as well as some wizard literature of my own creation at the beginnings of these chapters. And as always...FEEDBACK!**


	3. Chapter Two

**_What man or woman can be sure now, what _****_Virginia_****_'s thoughts were when she awoke in Hogwart's infirmary those many centuries ago? Who really, but Virginia herself?_**

**-_Nathaniel Elliot Potter, Earl of Gryffindor_**

**Chapter Two**

_" Yet__ the drums were beating with ever more fury, and one couldn't decipher sky from earth, nor imp from fey; though there was, of course, always Madness at our side. Always madness there..."_

**-Merlin's 'Exodus of Arthur'**

For a time I saw nothing but flashes of shadow and light play before my eyelids, reminding me of the dancing colors of stained glass windows, or the thin membranes of butterfly wings. I didn't know why I had these thoughts, or why I was so intently focused upon them; surely I knew that there were other, much direr things I should be focusing upon. For one, why I couldn't seem to control my limbs, or was having difficulty opening my eyes to the world around me. Was I still dreaming, still secured in the bonds of sleep?

I had the sudden urge to wiggle my toes, so I went with it. Ah, yes, there was something at least. Perhaps I was waking _now_? Odd, but I didn't feel drowsy; quite the opposite, in fact. I felt rejuvenated, as though I'd ran a marathon and was just coming down from an endorphin high; as though I'd been submerged in water for too long, and was taking in that first grateful, greedy lungful of air.

Gradually I became acutely aware of a hushed murmuring to my left, and the rustling of what sounded like thick cotton robes. The familiarity of it almost led me to believe that I was in school, though I knew it impossible. I was asleep in my bed, and mum was probably stacking a pile of my clothing upon my trunk. But what a haunting dream it had all been! I hadn't had one single nightmare like that involving Voldemort since second year, and that was saying something for someone with as vivid an imagination as I.

"Is that just my wishful thinking, or were her eyelashes fluttering just now, Poppy? Severus, how long did you say that the Dreamless Sleep draught would stay in her system?"

I froze, coming to terms with the irrefutable proof that I was no longer asleep within my bed at the Burrow.

If I wasn't mistaken, that was the Headmaster's eccentric tenor at my side. What in Tartarus was I doing in the Hogwart's Infirmary?

I wetted my lips and opened my eyes, cringing as the white ceiling glared brightly in my sensitive vision.

 "Professor? Is that you?"

There was a whisper warm breath above me, the smell of lemon drops faintly tainting it.

"Yes, it is. How are you fairing, Ms. Weasely?"

"Perfect, save for a slight drowsiness. May I ask you something, Headmaster?"

The amusement was almost tangible when he intoned:

"Of course, child; ask away."

"What...how...why am I in Hogwarts, let alone in one of the infirmary's beds?"

Dumbledore's corn-flower blue eyes widened, though I found that they only flickered with the barest hint of the twinkle I had grown used to over the years. Something very disturbing must have taken place. 

"I see that you are truly awake then, Ms. Weasely. And apparently you honestly do not have any idea as to why you're here, since you're asking as much. What may I ask is the last thing that you recall?"

He gestured for me to speak, and I felt the words stumbling forth from my lips, though I was very certain that I hadn't been the one to volunteer the action. "I was about to run down the stairs and inform my mother and father that there was a snake in my room, and that I'd been bitten, and was in desperate need of a mediwizard."

The old man raised a cryptic eyebrow. "Mmmh...that's interesting, my dear. Tell me, there was nothing else...?"

I thought about the face I had seen before I fell unconscious, that grinning mask of decay and things found only in the dark recesses of nature. If he sincerely could read minds, he'd know beyond a shadow of a doubt what I was thinking now. However, I didn't need to volunteer anything. 

 "No, nothing else. May I inquire the reason for the questioning?"

"You may, Ms. Weasely, but that doesn't mean the Headmaster will be inclined to indulge your request."

Turning toward the direction the painfully sober voice had arisen from, I wasn't too surprised to find that Snape was in the room, leaning against the wall rather than sitting on a stool. I'd suspected since last year that he and Dumbledore had some sort of important ties with one another, whether that is of the professional, companionable, or of the, uh-hem, erotic kind, I wasn't sure, and didn't know if I wanted to find out.

Well, maybe I did, if just to satisfy for perversity's sake...for all I know, the two could be heavily involved within Knockturn Alley's S&M underworld.

Dumbledore raised a gnarled hand to his temple, as though to ward off a headache. He seemed to remember where he was, however, and obviously thought better of it. For a fleeting moment I thought of how grand it would be if he had seen that image.

I didn't bother to suppress the amused grin that stretched across my face. Oh, he must have simply _adored_ that one.

"Child, this is rather urgent, despite appearances. Are you completely sure that you do not recollect anything more than what you've told me?"

I was about to take pity on him, as he looked so ancient and weary to me for an instant then. But as I opened my mouth, and was just about to tell him of my vision, my jaw abruptly snapped shut, as though someone had lifted their hand to my chin and closed it for me. 

I must have visibly paled, as I saw Snape and Dumbledore exchange a puzzled glance over my head. 

"Virginia, are you feeling alright?"

I nodded, another involuntary response racked from me. The feeling was not above comparison with existing only as a ventriloquist's puppet.

As I felt the strings begin to loosen their grip, I relaxed slightly more. Someone was toying about in my head, and I had a distinct impression of whom that someone might be.

Though for now, unfortunately, I could do nothing to tell anyone. Some vestige, whatever it was, of Voldemort was in my mind, possibly having lain dormant till presently. 

_Go away_, I silently willed_. Relent your grasp; you've no advantage here anymore. _

Of course, there was no reply. But that seemed a form of his laughter to me, just the same.

I pulled myself away temporarily from my predicament and made a valiant attempt to concentrate on the dilemma at hand. 

"Headmaster, Professor Snape...to get straight to the point...what is this all about? Why am I here to begin with and where is my family?"

My interrogator smiled, though it was of the rueful kind. I didn't care for the way that it looked upon his sagging, normally genial features. It made me wonder at him, and I did so hate wondering about things. Life would just be so much simpler, and so much better if everyone could be happy wallowing in their own ignorance. _Who was this man sitting across from me?_

"You always were a no-nonsense sort of young woman, Ms. Weasely. Well, you have asked and shall receive. If nothing else, you do remember that Mr. Potter was staying over the holidays with your family, correct?"

I blinked, muttering a distracted confirmation as I suddenly found the threads of the bed linens to be remarkably fascinating. My instincts weren't taking kindly to this at all.

"To come straight to the point, as you would wish, when Mr. Potter and your brother were up in the attic rem-"

I interrupted. I couldn't help it. It was my way of preparing myself for the worst contrivable possibility.

"-and they were suddenly assaulted by flesh-eating moths, right? Or maybe some wayward dementor managed to get into the house and give one of them the Kiss. Or was it one of You-Know-Who's minions, raiding the burrow and raping my mother and quartering my father? Oh, just think of the lawn gnomes...they wouldn't have stood a chance against a dea-"

"Ms. Weasely, are you quite finished? Come now, do not be frightened. Everyone happens to be perfectly fine, so set your let your fears be assuaged. The problem, I fear, is concerning _you_, my dear."

I stopped the rampant tragedies that I had been forming and discarding in my mind in as brief a time as it took him to finish his sentence. The problem was _myself_? What had transpired that could be so horrible...?

Peering up, I felt my brow furrow, this time of my own accord. "What have I done, Headmaster?"

There was an audible snort of derision behind me.

Dumbledore fingered his white beard thoughtfully, as though it were a personal science. "The question, Virginia, is relating to what you have _not_ succeeded in doing. It looks as though you had been griped by a temporary fit of insanity. You say that you were poisoned by a serpent, true? Where did you discover this creature?"

I processed what he said, mulling over more irrational possibilities. "It was in my bureau, beneath one of my garments. Please, Professor, what did I do, or not do, as you put it? I need to know now."

There was a tangible silence that pervaded the room before he managed to successfully deal the blow, one that would leave me reeling for awhile.

"You made an attempted murder on Harry Potter."

In the back of my mind, I knew that I detected an unpleasant, resentful laughter.

~*~*~

**( Real**** Author's Note:) Thanks to all who have reviewed so far…you really know how to make a girl feel good! Updates shall appear soon, and as always, FEEDBACK IS LIFE BLOOD!**


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